


What More Is there?

by Mnojick



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:22:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21571786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnojick/pseuds/Mnojick





	What More Is there?

John watched as Sherlock gracefully maneuvers around the mess that is their kitchen and living room, with Rosie propped on his hip like it was meant to be. Sherlock was a natural caregiver. He always thought about Rosie and loved spending time with her. In some ways John thought with a sting of pain, how Sherlock would be a much better parental figure than Mary. Mary who was too flighty and likely to leave when she wanted another mission. Sherlock on the other hand had happily reduced the number of cases he had. 

The thought of Sherlock's devotion to him and his daughter, as well as the whiskey, had his head buzzing with happiness.

Something about the domesticity of it all made him say what he said next, as Sherlock came back down the stairs.

"Sherlock, tonight, I'd like you to fuck me."

"What the..." Sherlock squawked, rushing over to John. His eyes were wide and the baby blue colour looked especially becoming in the lamp light. It only quickened John's resolve all the more to have his lovely Sherlock spluttering in a voice that soared upwards a whole octave. "Do you... You mean....Really...?"

John always loved getting one up on the detective, but this was quite extraordinary. He didn't think it was possible but Sherlock was literally squirming against the air as he stood in front of him, face even paler than his normal shade of white.

"Yes." John nodded. Enclosed Sherlock's hand in his and began leading him to the bedroom.

John is visibly uncomfortable as he shifts in his armchair. “Y-Y-yeah, I… heard you the first time, but, erm..." he sputters. “The solution to _ what?_“

Sherlock huffs and flings his arms outwards before rising dramatically from his seat. “We _ talked _ about this: it has been approximately four months and sixteen days since you have had sex with anyone.” He ruffles his own hair in frustration. “And your sulking over it is so tangibly _ annoying _ that I cannot work, and I cannot _ think.” _

John stares back blankly, his mouth hanging open. “I… Sherlock. I don’t have a single clue what you're referring to. We haven’t talked about this. Not once. I think I would remember-"

“Didn’t we?!” Sherlock interjects, but then he freezes mid-pace, planting his feet directly in front of John's chair. "Wait. We didn't?"

"Afraid not." John gazes up at him incredulously, but his eyes contain a hint of amusement. 

"Oh. Hm. I was definitely talking about it, though. I'm fairly sure I was speaking out loud. True, you didn't respond, but I just assumed you had no argument." He takes one more step towards John. They're so close that their knees would touching if John’s legs weren’t so short.

"Sherlock, we've been over this. You know that I _ do _ occasionally I leave the flat?”

Sherlock crinkles his nose. “Why?”

John rolls his eyes with exasperation. “Really? Did you forget that I have a job? And that I occasionally _ do _ go on dates? Thanks for bringing _ that _ up, though, it's very kind of you to--”

“Be quiet, John,” Sherlock interrupts, leaning in closer. “Be quiet and have sex with me.”

“No! Sherlock!” John lifts his feet and kicks Sherlock in the shins. 

Sherlock cries out in pain, moving away.

John glances back down at his boring newspaper. “Look. I don’t know _ what _ has gotten into you, but...that...isn’t the solution. So you’re going to have to think of something else, alright?"

Sherlock inhales deeply, because he is deeply annoyed. John's pulse is beating fast, and beads of sweat are forming at his brow. He's compulsively licking his lips as though they were covered in a mixture of cocaine and chocolate and honey.

It's very obvious. John wants to have sex with him. Sherlock wasn't expecting this game of cat an mouse, but thankfully, it’s a game he never loses.

As his shins pulsate with the fiery pain of being kicked by a small man trained in military combat, he has a bright idea. In fact, it's the best idea he's had in three days.

Sherlock turns to face the other direction. "Meet me in my chambers in five minutes, John,” he instructs, dusting off the collar of his shirt.

“What?!” John calls out. "What are you on about? And who calls it a chamber? It's a bedroom. _Bedroom_. This isn't sixteenth century!” 

“I'll see you in five minutes," Sherlock replies, and he strolls out of the room.

***

John knocks tentatively at Sherlock's door. Five minutes on the dot.

Sherlock grins to himself. “Come in.”

The door cracks open and he shuffles in. "Yeah, hi. Erm, Sherlock, I, erm, look—“ He trails off mid sentence, gawking at Sherlock, who is sprawled across his bed, fully clothed and ready for sex.

John's forehead crinkles into a frown. “Hey! Is that my laptop?” He gestures towards the computer laying open in front of Sherlock. 

Sherlock types idly. "Oh, this? I believe so, yes."

“Dammit, Sherlock! I've been looking all over for that! And why is it in your bedroom, of all places? I—“

“My laptop battery died,” Sherlock explains. 

“But you were just _ on _ your laptop! Five minutes ago! And it was charged! And working!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, losing patience yet again. “It died _ Wednesday _ while you were at _ work_." He huffs. "Your pre-coital conversational skills are atrocious, by the way. Not sexy at all."

“I’m not _ trying _ to be sexy, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ignores him, because he's lying. He turns the laptop towards him. “Look.”

John leans in cautiously, squinting at the screen, but he doesn't move any closer.

“Oh, come here,” Sherlock says. “It's not as if I'm going to...tear off your trousers one-handed in a fit of passion while you're scrolling through Gmail." His eyes scan John's lower body. "Especially not those corduroy trousers that I’m fairly certain my father also owns.”

“Oi!” John hisses.

“Come look at this,” Sherlock insists. 

John takes one tiny step. “I’m...I'm going to sit next to you on the bed now. But it's just so that I can see. _ Not _ so that I can have sex with you. Alright?”

“Of course!” Sherlock grins widely and pats a spot on the bed next to him. “No sex, John. None. Not even a tiny bit.”

Sherlock is proud of himself for not laughing as he says this, because there will, as they both know, be heaps of sex.

John sits next to Sherlock, and his body is quite tense.

"Relax," Sherlock says.

John gives him a half-smile and finally moves in towards the laptop. Sure, he seems absolutely calm and collected at the moment, but his pulse is leaping, and his neck is glistening with sweat, and he’s working very hard to hide the fact that sitting next to Sherlock is causing him to become aroused. 

"It’s an email,” John concludes. “From a potential client.”

“Yes.”

John side-eyes him. “...And?”

Sherlock rolls to his side, resting his head in his hand, smiling at John flirtatiously. “I haven’t read it yet.” 

“So what?”

Sherlock feels like banging his head into a nearby pillow. “I want you to read it to me,” he explains patiently, pushing the laptop towards John. “...So that I can solve it.” 

“Um. Okay.” John takes the computer.

"Okay."

“...And then what?”

Sherlock slowly and seductively inches closer to him. “And then, I’m going to solve it. In under one minute."

“Oh.” John shrugs. “Okay.” 

“And then you’re going to have sex with me," Sherlock concludes.

John slams the laptop shut. “Good evening, Sherlock,” he says calmly as he stands to leave.

Sherlock grabs him by the wrist. "No!” John freezes. “Do I really need to spell everything out for you?"

John remains silent, but he doesn't pull away.

Sherlock sighs deeply. "Let me explain this clearly and thoroughly." He sits up, tugging at John's wrist. 

John reclaims his seat. "Alright."

"John. I am the most observant man in London. Quite possibly the world. I see you every day. Do you think..." He hesitates for a moment.

This is simply an observation; a deduction. But it's far more difficult than he expected it to be. "John,” he says. “Do you think I don’t notice the way you look at me?”

John’s expression remains blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

"Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock is now annoyed. No, he's more than that. He's angry. He’s offended that John is questioning his observation skills, and that he's denying what is clearly true.

He takes a deep breath and slides his hand up John’s arm, pulling himself close enough that their legs are side-to-side.

John clenches his jaw, but still doesn't move.

"John,” Sherlock continues. “You and I have a chemistry that’s undeniable, and quite honestly, unprecedented. There has always been something between us—something without a name. But it's there, and I _ know _ you feel it, too." He wraps his arm around John's shoulder. Surprisingly, John relaxes into his touch. "It's obvious that you _ are _ attracted to me."

John finally turns his head towards him, grimacing. "How?"

"You stare at my lips a great deal, and then you start to lick your own...has anyone told you that you do that quite a lot? Anyway, you’re thinking about kissing me. And when the breeze blows through my hair, your gaze falls onto it, and your fingers twitch. You want to touch it. And you think I don't notice your staring at me when I walk through the sitting room wrapped in a towel—so I feel that this is a good time to inform you that the microwave oven reflects everything that happens in the sitting room. Should I go on?"

"No, no. That's...that's plenty, thank you."

Sherlock rests his chin in John's soft hair--a gesture of tenderness that surprises even _ him. _

John moves closer.

“And I assure you,” Sherlock says, John’s hair rustling with his words. “...that the feeling is completely mutual.”

“Is it?” John murmurs.

_ “Clearly.” _

“No, no—“ He chuckles under his breath. “It's really not clear to the regular people,” he reminds him. “We’re all a bit slower than you, Sherlock.”

“John. I have spent the past hour _ begging _ you to have sex with me. You aren't just a little slow; you are a complete moron.”

John bursts into laughter. “And you are a complete and utter dick.”

“Yes. That I am.” Growing ever more impatient, Sherlock wraps every limb at his disposal around John’s body. "Now." He kisses the top of his head. “Have sex with me.”

John stares at him for a moment. "Hmm. How about I kiss you first?” 

An undeniable thrill surges through Sherlock's body. “If you must.”

John brushes his fingers lightly over Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s eyes fall closed, and he shivers in anticipation as John firmly grips his chin to bring their lips together.

Their breaths mingle, quick and unsteady, and Sherlock readies himself.

John stops just before their mouths touch. 

“Hmmmm?” Sherlock’s eyes fly open. “What’s the matter?”

John's hands fall to his shoulders, and he slowly bows his head. “All of those things you said about me, Sherlock. You _ were _ right, you know."

"Yes? I do know that. Okay, so back to what we were doing.” Sherlock closes his eyes and puckers his lips.

“There is _ one _ thing you missed, though.”

Sherlock snaps out of his haze. “What? I _ missed _ something? What did I miss?"

“Look at me,” John murmurs, taking Sherlock’s head back into his hands. Delicately, as though he’s sure Sherlock will break.

Sherlock tilts his chin towards him, and the look John is giving him—it can't be summed up with mere words. He looks at Sherlock as though he’s the most beautiful thing in the universe. As though he’s more valuable than all of the world's gold. As if he’s peering directly into his soul, if such a thing exists. 

_Oh._

Sherlock takes a in a sharp breath.

_ Oh. _

John is...he’s….

“...John, you—” Sherlock stammers. “Really?"

John presses their foreheads together. "Really."

And now, it’s Sherlock who is sweaty. He also thinks he might be going into shock, or perhaps cardiac arrest, but likely both at once. Because these scenarios are all far more likely than John Watson being in love with him.

John tenderly smooths down the sides of Sherlock's hair. "So, do you see why I was hesitant at first?”

Sherlock swallows thickly. “Yes,” he croaks. He clears his throat. "Yes." He swallows again. “Water? I need water. Where do I get water?”

"Kitchen sink?” John laughs. His laughter is such a beautiful sound that Sherlock wants to cry. Hm. _ That’s _ new. 

“Yes. I’d like one of those, please." Sherlock’s head is spinning. He feels like he’s falling through the mattress, and his entire body is jelly, and—

John softly presses his lips to his, and everything halts, and there is no longer any doubt.

John loves him. 

And Sherlock loves him, too.

Ha. That’s _ also _ new. Or is it?

No. It’s not new. Sherlock is just an idiot. An even bigger idiot than John, he supposes, and that’s quite profound.

But now isn't the time to think about that. Because John is_ kissing him. _

Sherlock sighs into John’s warm mouth as he nibbles at Sherlock’s bottom lip, sweeps his tongue over it, and nibbles again. He knots his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, pressing his head in to deepen the kiss.

Sherlock wraps his long arms around John’s waist, and his mouth falls open, and he’s tasting John and smelling him and holding him and feeling him all at once.

John pulls their mouths apart, tugging at Sherlock’s curls to tilt his head back. Sherlock whimpers at the loss, but John’s lips place wet, open-mouthed kisses onto his neck, and he very soon forgets. And then, John is kissing his collarbone, and his Adam’s apple, and his shoulders, and he’s sending waves of electricity through his body.

“_God,” _ Sherlock moans softly, and John responds this time by pulling _ firmly _ at his curls—and oh, Sherlock likes that quite a lot. 

“Nnnngggh. Again,” he whispers. 

John smiles against Sherlock’s clavicle and pulls. 

“Aaaahhh. Joh-" But before he can finish his thought, John surges forwards, sealing their mouths together. He licks into Sherlock’s mouth without mercy as Sherlock writhes against him, and neither one of them is being delicate or tender—not anymore.

But the kiss ends as abruptly as it had begun, with John moving away to lock eyes with Sherlock. He’s different, now, Sherlock thinks. His eyes are lakes of royal blue, his cheeks are flushed, and his hair is messy. God, he looks gorgeous.

“Lie down on the bed again, Sherlock,” he demands. “On your back. Now.”

Sherlock feels a rush of blood flowing to his face and ears. He has to bite his lip to keep from responding “Yes, Captain.” Because John is using his Captain Watson voice, and when he pulls out that trick, _wow_. Sherlock can’t follow his orders quickly enough, so he flops onto his back.

John stands at the foot of the bed, staring down at him, and soon, the fierce military man melts away. As he regards Sherlock almost reverently, something akin to warmth and happiness bubbles up in Sherlock’s chest.

John gets onto his knees in the bed, draping his legs over Sherlock’s and lowering his body down to straddle him.

Sherlock flinches. “Ow!"

John freezes. “Oh! What happened?”

“My shins,” Sherlock pouts. “_Someone _ kicked them earlier.”

John covers his face with amused exasperation. “Uh huh. Yeah, sorry about that. Habit? Self-defence?”

Sherlock sighs dramatically. “If you hope to earn my forgiveness, you’ll need to take off your clothes.”

John beams. “Perfect!” He pulls his shirt over his head and quickly begins to unbutton his trousers. 

Sherlock bites his bottom lip hungrily as he watches John undress, and he is _insanely _ aroused. John isn’t handsome in the traditional sense, and Sherlock knows that. But god, right now—as he pulls himself out of his ill-fitting corduroy Grandfather trousers—he couldn’t be any more perfect. 

“Christ, you’re beautiful, Sherlock,” John says, as if echoing Sherlock's thoughts.

Sherlock inhales deeply. “I was just thinking the same.” He exhales. “About you, I mean. Not about myself."

"Got it." John grins at him as he tosses his trousers onto the ground. And just like that, he is completely naked. Sherlock swallows as he takes it all in. _ All _of it. And there is a lot to take in. Because he's got an enormous—

"Sherlock, are you alright?" 

"Fantastic." Sherlock smiles from ear to ear. "Come here, you."

John climbs over him, placing his hands and legs on either side of Sherlock’s body. “Can I undress you, too? Or do you have to slightly injure me first?"

It’s Sherlock’s turn to burst into laughter. “You may undress me. No bruising required, unless that’s what you’re into.”

John waggles his eyebrows coyly as he begins to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock watches him, and he’s pretty sure he’s wearing the most ridiculous grin he’s ever worn in his life, but he doesn’t care, because he’s _ happy_.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” John remarks quietly as he removes Sherlock's final piece of clothing.

Sherlock reaches his arms up, taking John's head into his hands. He gazes up at him for a few seconds before kissing him on the forehead. “You have all the evidence you need, John. Believe it."

John allows his entire body to settle over Sherlock’s, like a warm John-blanket. And then he kisses him; a full body kiss, this time, lips and tongue and teeth. A warm, intimate embrace. Sweaty, naked skin on skin. Their hips rocking in unison as the wet, warm heads of their cocks slide together over and over and over. And they sigh with the pleasure, and they groan, and they sigh, and they groan and whisper one another’s names as if it were a prayer.

After a few moments—(or maybe more than a few, as those particular moments were frankly some of the most intense moments of Sherlock’s life) (and he may have lost track of time) (and possibly space and every other dimension)—Sherlock’s cock is rock hard, throbbing, and begging to be touched. 

“John,” he mumbles. “In my top drawer, you’ll find some lube.” He places a quick kiss on John’s neck. “Use it as you wish to use it.”

“Mmm." John enthusiastically reaches into the drawer and takes out the tube. But before he begins anything new and exciting and possibly quite kinky, he simply places a kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Will you turn over onto your stomach for me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s chest swells. Although he thought Captain Watson’s authoritative voice was a turn-on, it doesn’t hold a candle to _ this. _

John Watson. Just John. Sweet John. Tender John. John who loves him. John he loves. 

He turns onto his belly, and without a second wasted, John is kissing him in all of the right places. Sherlock frots against the mattress, his cock growing even harder. “John,” he says, semi-desperate. “I’m not sure I can last much longer.”

John kisses his right shoulder. Sherlock can hear the sound of the cap opening, and the liquid pouring onto his fingers.

“You okay?” John asks.

Sherlock smiles. “More than okay.”

John’s index finger begins to move in circles around Sherlock’s arsehole. He feels another finger join in. Both fingers slide into him at once, and he inhales sharply, his body searing with burning pleasure. 

John nuzzles the base of his spine. "Good?"

“Good.”

He slides his fingers in further, wriggling them, scissoring them, and working some type of magic that, apparently, only the hands of a doctor hold. Sherlock gasps and writhes and spins out of control, and he’s sure nothing in the universe could ever feel better than this.

He’s wrong.

John’s breath is now hot against the back of his neck, and his body is now pressed into his. A whisper in his ear:

“Ready, sweetheart?”

Sherlock’s heart clenches. 

He’s never been called...never has someone been fond enough of him to… 

It occurs to Sherlock momentarily that he should be repulsed by such a word, as he usually detests terms of endearment. But with John...it’s different. 

“Sherlock?” John repeats quietly.

"John," Sherlock says. “One more thing?"

“Yes. What is it?"

Sherlock swallows. “I want to hear you say it."

John kisses him on the earlobe. “Of course. Just...give me a moment to gather my thoughts? I’m...not really used to this kind of thing, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Sherlock offers. 

John swats him lightly on the arse. “Shut up.”

“_ You _ shut up!” Sherlock teases. He shifts his eyes thoughtfully. "Only... don’t_ actually _shut up. I still want you to say—“

“That I love you?” 

“Yes." Sherlock stops breathing, which means he should probably call the paramedics, but whatever. "Yes. That.”

John nuzzles against Sherlock's shoulder, and a shiver of pleasure runs through his body.

“Yeah. Okay. So here's the thing, Sherlock." He clears his throat, which is an adorable thing he does before he says something he believes to be profound.

“I love you. You are...without a doubt, the most brilliant man I’ve ever met. But you’re so much more than that.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “See, you...you sometimes put on this mask, you know, to keep people from knowing who you truly are. To keep them from getting close to you. But for some reason, you never wore that mask for me. And I feel incredibly lucky for that. I get to know the real you, who is brilliant, and brave, and wise, kind. The man who loves fiercely, and fights to do what is right, even when it’s not easy.”

Sherlock listens silently, completely still—mostly because he’s afraid to burst into tears at any moment.

“Sherlock,” John continues softly as he weaves his fingers through his hair. “Do you know how much better my life is with you in it? I've never told you, really. But yeah. You...made me feel alive when I was nearly dead, you know? And you bring me joy every single day. Even on the days I want to wring your neck,” he laughs. “You...make me very happy, Sherlock, and I can’t quite imagine my life without you. I don't think I want to, actually."

Sherlock’s eyes are fully leaking now. He buries his face into the pillow to hide the tears.

“And also...not to be completely shallow, but Jesus, you are bloody gorgeous. God, I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to touch you. I suppose it’s been since day one, at Bart's.”

“Since day one?” Sherlock’s voice cracks like a pubescent schoolboy. But it’s alright, because John loves him.

“Since day one.”

Sherlock sniffles gracefully, wiping the tears from his face. “John. John, John, John. I—I don’t know how to respond. I mean you, you should know that I feel—I’m also… I mean…”

John ruffles his hair playfully. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to say it until you’re ready.”

Sherlock smiles against the pillow. "John?"

"Yeah."

"Have sex with me."

“Yep. Yes. Great plan.” He is still fully erect, which helps the plan move along nicely. And from what Sherlock can tell, all of this talk about _ feelings _has actually caused himself to become even more aroused. 

John rearranges his body over his, wrapping him in his arms. "Sherlock," he murmurs against his ear. “I’m going to make love to you now, alright?”

Sherlock's heart skips a beat. Again. “Yes. Do that. That sounds even better.”

John’s cock presses into Sherlock, and everything else just sort of fades away.

Everything but their bodies, drenched in sweat, sliding together and over the mattress. Everything but John, growling lowly, panting as he moves deeper and deeper into Sherlock.

“Fuck!” John says gruffly. “God, Sherlock, you’re—” but he's too busy groaning, pumping into Sherlock with irregular, wild rhythms, encasing himself in his heat.

“Christ!” Sherlock continues to frot against the mattress, his fingers scrabbling wildly over the sheets, grasping at anything they can. “God, John, I’m already so close, I—Ohhhh,” he groans lowly. He can feel it in his whole body, the trembling sensation, like the rainfall before a flood.

John grabs onto Sherlock’s hips firmly, lightly digging his nails into his flesh. Sherlock responds by backing himself onto him, fucking him back, forcing him inside more and more. John brushes against his prostate, and god, he’s so deep, deeper than anyone has ever been before.

Sherlock loses all self-control as his body freezes.

John takes Sherlock’s hand into his, not breaking the rhythm. “I’m going to come, Sherlock,” he murmurs as he weaves their fingers together. “I’m going to come so fucking hard for you. But I need you to come first, alright? Can you come for me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock never, ever thought it would come to this. He’d been a fool not to see that John is in love with him. But even moreso, he’d been fool not to realise how madly and deeply in love he is with John.

He comes with a grunt, crying out John’s name. His entire body shakes, his cock throbs, ejaculating in warm liquid spurts, over, and over, and over, and over. 

Soon, John is coming, too. Sherlock can feel his cock hardening as he rides it to completion, burying his face into Sherlock’s shoulder as he begins to swear.

(He swears a lot when he comes. Sherlock already knows this, because the walls in their flat are thin.) (Today, he's saying some of the filthiest things Sherlock has ever heard come out of his mouth, and it’s fantastic.)

As John begins to slow down, he collapses fully onto Sherlock's back.

“Whoa,” John eloquently states. 

“Yeah,” Sherlock agrees. 

“That was amazing.” 

“Incredible.” 

“We’ll definitely need to do it again.” 

“Absolutely.” Sherlock takes his hand and kisses the tips of his fingers. “Oh, and by the way, I just solved the Clarendon murder case.”

"The what?” John asks groggily. “Oh. Sherlock, you can’t be serious right now—“

Sherlock is 100% serious, though. 

“I’m 100% serious,” he says. “It came to me as soon as I—well, came. It's like a light switched on. It was the sister. God, I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.”

John sighs and rolls onto the bed beside him. “Congratulations, Sherlock. Guess you found the right solution after all.”

“Yes." Sherlock turns to his side, gazing at John, and he feels as if they're floating beneath a cloud of giddiness. "Although it worked out far better than I predicted,” he adds.

“Yeah.” John sighs happily. “Best plan ever.”

“Yes.” Sherlock clears his throat. “Erm, I suppose I should get back to work, then.” 

“What?” John frowns at him. _ “Now?” _

Sherlock nods. “This brain waits for no one. I must transfer the information as soon as possible."

"Alright." John sighs again, sits up, and moves to the edge of the bed to collect his clothing. 

Sherlock sits up instantly, moving his body next to John's. He lays his head onto his shoulder and snuggles into him. "John." 

He feels John smiling.“Yeah?”

Sherlock takes him by the shoulders. His gaze is serious as it pierces into his. “Could you pass me your laptop?"

John rolls his eyes. "Sherlock!"

"Could you pass me your laptop...please?"

John shakes his head and laughs. "To be fair, I don’t know what I was expecting," he mumbles to himself.

"What was that?

"Nothing." John smiles and leans over to get the computer from the bedstand. “Here you are, gorgeous,” he says with a wink.

“Thanks.” Sherlock opens the laptop and begins typing right away.

John stretches his arms over his head and then stands up. “Alright, then. I suppose I’ll go take a shower. Good luck with...the murder...typing...thing.”

Sherlock scowls. "I don't need luck," he states, continuing his task. “However, there is one final thing before you go—“

John spins back around. “What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stops typing and looks up, and the two men gaze at one another adoringly over John’s stolen keyboard.

“I love you, John,” he says. 

A grin covers John’s adorable face. “I know." He turns again to leave.

Sherlock notes, as John leaves, that he is still entirely naked. So he watches him go. He watches him very, very closely. Studies him, really. Every move. And John is giving him quite a bit of material to work with. He keeps his eyes fixed on him until he’s out the door. And he's _ totally _ allowed to do that.

Because he loves John. And John loves him back.


End file.
